On Painting

The Kind'red Muse resigns her Bays, And fain would soar in notes Divine; To sing the Magic Pencil's Praise, And make the glowing Canvass shine.

See conscious Nature yields the Prize, And blushing views her Art outdone; Whilst rowling years their Glories rise, Who have immortal Laurels won.

My grateful Muse cannot refrain But gladly tunes her humble Lyre; And dedicates each chearful Strain, To the fam'd PAINTER'S hallow'd Fire:

Hail bright Art, by Heav'n ordain'd, Th' exalted Force of Skill sublime; Since by thy Strokes is still retain'd, The mighty Deeds of ancient Time.

When this vast World in Chaos lay, E're yet the formless Mass was chang'd; When gloomy Night was mix'd with Day, Before the rowling Orbs were rang'd:

Th' Almighty Artist shew'd his Skill, The wide Expanse his Canvass made, The flowing Pencil of his Will, Painted Lights Etherial Shade.

With stronger Touch he form'd the Stars; In grosser Grounds the Earth he laid; The surging Deep his Skill declares, His Landskip is the woody Shade.

Then Man compleats the vast Design, The last of all Creation born; His Face came nearest to Divine, And best display'd his Maker's Form.

The Power beheld him with Delight, And quickly saw that Man must die; When lost in Shades of gloomy Night, His fleeting Soul from hence must fly.

His Bounty mov'd him to impart, A Portion of 's Creative Skill; He then infus'd the Painter's Art; Inspir'd the Poet's deathless Quill.

Hand in Hand Olympus's Top they chose, And always quaff Castalian Spring, Where Virgil's Laurel ever grows, And Titian's Fame shall ever ring.

The Sister Sciences do thrive, In Arts refin'd and sacred Love; Their blooming Wreaths are still alive; The latest Test of Time to prove.

Whil'st Mortals view the rising Sun, Prepar'd his Radiant Course to go; The World will praise the bright Lebrun, And speak the Fame of Angelo.

Great Urben, Reuben and Vandike Such lasting Monuments did raise, Which ever will the Fancy strike, And speak their own immortal Praise.

O! happy Kneller, by whom we see A Royal Race of Kings display'd; A deathless Pledge to them and thee, Preserv'd by thy delusive Shade.

Thy Strokes secur'd, shall ever shine, In spight of mouldering Years; Still guarded by each golden Line, That in thy Addie's Page appears.

To Jervice now do Lords resort; And Ladies for his Leisure wait; His Skill is valued much at Court, Himself carress'd by all the Great.

Then let us fill a briming Bowl, To keep our Patrons still in Mind; Since Wine gives Wings unto the Soul, We scorn a Genius that's confind.